


The Good Life

by Miss_Murdered



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Language, M/M, Violence, mentions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Murdered/pseuds/Miss_Murdered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heero and Trowa don't have a conventional relationship but they understand each other. Was a one-shot now extended to a multi-part showing their relationship through both of their eyes. 1x3x1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don’t own.  
> A/N: First two chapters beta’d by ELLE. The rest are done by me.

The gentle sound of waves lapping against the hull of a small fishing boat woke Trowa, his body still aching, his mouth still tasting of blood and salt, his head throbbing.

The slow, lulling movement was comforting, the dark of the cabin reminding him of safety, cocooned in the back of Jeeps as a child, the slow rumble of old engines sending him to sleep in blankets.

He reached for his wrists, to where the ropes had been tied tight, and he rubbed at those chafing wounds, the pain a little uncomfortable but nothing he couldn't deal with or hadn't dealt with before. The other wounds were painful in degrees but Trowa did not care – the beating he took meant he didn't break cover, meant he was outed as a spy for another criminal gang rather than as a Preventer and it meant that his mission was not a failure. Not over. He could deal with the beating. Deal with his head pulled back and his fingers stomped on – had dealt as then there was Heero, shooting people in the head, his partner making short work of a gang of Somali pirates, the blood and bone fragments, the skin and brain tissue all decorating a steel box of a room aboard the Juggernaut, an old Alliance warship converted for criminal purposes.

He sat up, remembered the escape from the Juggernaut – him limping along corridors, supported by his partner, Heero's firm muscles encased in the black slick wetsuit, his eyes darkened by the passion and fierceness that he brought to battle. The same passion and fierceness he brought to fucking. It was as though the two were interlinked within him and Trowa was a willing participant in playing with that line – lust and violence. Sex and death. They were soldiers – those things lived side by side.

They had jumped off the Juggernaut, the small fishing boat anchored not far off. And Trowa was weak – too weak perhaps for the swim – not fed, bleeding, his hands useless from the hours spent tied behind his back but he was following the sleek black form into the frigid water, following, falling, his lungs filling with salt water and being pulled, pulled under until he was dragged upwards, dragged by Heero's arms and his strength. Trowa had been pulled towards the small fishing boat bobbing on the waves and he saw the name of the boat on the stern 'the Good Life' – something ironic about it, he thought vaguely as they reached it.

Last night he had been tended to – hot soup and tea, his injuries bandaged, his body wrapped in warmth and Heero's warmth, a firm body holding him tight as he drifted to sleep, the shared body heat making him feel his limbs again.

He took the beating, the fall into the cold salt water, as that's what they did and he didn't regret his wounds, his pain, as he shifted on the bed. Trowa had drifted after the war at first – feeling so little for so long that pain and Heero were what he needed and the life of a deep cover agent satisfied that.

Trowa moved, sitting, feeling stitches pull, his head nearly hitting the bunk above and he grimaced, felt the pain and he heard a snort from the doorway.

Heero.

"Pain?"

"Manageable."

Heero grunted, left and Trowa swung his legs over the side of the bunk, rubbed his thighs, and stood, his legs shaking slightly or maybe he was disorientated by the slight rocking motion of the boat. He held onto the sides, stabilising himself, followed Heero to what he'd seen the previous night – a small cabin with what acted as a kitchen, the table, attached to the floor, where the first aid kit still sat, the uncomfortable couch that he'd sat on as Heero treated his wounds. He'd asked him how he felt last night and Trowa had murmured, soft, his mind elsewhere to a time long ago, a trailer and a fifteen year old boy.

"It hurts like hell," he'd said.

Not dying – though without Heero, he probably would've been, but it all hurt last night. Now he dealt. Pain was pain was pain. He'd had worse.

Heero had coffee in tin mugs – gave one to Trowa, watched him drink it, eyes dark in the dim light of the cabin, watching him closely, and he saw Heero lick his lips unconsciously, take a sip of his own coffee.

"Where are we?"

"Off the coast of Madagascar," Heero said matter-of-factly. "You need to eat."

Trowa acquiesced, his stomach deprived for some time and some stew in cheap tins was heated up, placed in front of him and he ate as he needed to with Heero’s eyes not leaving him.

"You checked in?"

Heero shook his head. "We haven't got anything. You're not compromised fully – only seen as a traitor. We can work that when we get back to Cape Town."

"You listened?"

His answer was one curt nod. Trowa took another spoonful of stew like he should, Heero leaning against the counter, and that information was processed in Trowa's brain, the recording device hidden under his skin reported back here, to the laptop, and Heero had heard.

"You didn't lose your accent."

"I never do."

No he didn't – meant to be French, so kept that accent even during his interrogation, even during the pain. He was a damn professional.

Trowa finished the food, not tasting like anything beyond salt but he wondered if the salt water in his mouth from his dive had tainted it.

He got up, unsteady still, the bowl discarded in the sink, Heero closely watching his movement. Not offering help as Trowa did not want it and Heero knew – knew like he always did – that Trowa was recovering not just from his wounds but from the injury to his pride.

The cabin was too small – smelt of staleness and unappetising food. Trowa felt too big for it – Heero seemed taller, more imposing, his blue eyes watching him move, and Trowa liked that look that Heero gave him. One that would make a lesser man’s skin crawl – predatory and dark and passion in his otherwise impassive face.

In pain, in boxers and bandages, Trowa was still drawn to him, and he approached, stopped in front of Heero, put his hands on either side of the counter, trapping him, and Heero's gaze lifted to his face.

"You're hurt."

The statement made Trowa laugh, a soft sound that escaped his lips and Heero maybe knew why and maybe he didn't.

One of Trowa's hands made its way from the counter, pulled at Heero's hair, so that he could lick a trail from collarbone to pulse point, his voice then whispering against Heero's saliva soaked skin.

"I like the pain."

It was all Heero needed, hands at Trowa's jaw, forcing him to meet the kiss that was demanding, Heero's tongue unrelenting, forceful, bypassing lips, running over teeth and palate, dominating him and Trowa felt himself pushed towards the small table, tin mugs of coffee spilled and rattling to the floor, the med kit falling, the clank of metal heard as Heero pushed him, Trowa’s cock already hard for the man with dark blue eyes.

The contact of the table jolted Trowa, made him moan in pain and pleasure as Heero released his lips, dragging and biting down on the bottom one and Trowa pulled at Heero, regaining his footing. He kissed him again, attacking his lips, navigating his way backwards towards what acted as a bedroom and the thin bunk, the rocking of the boat making him feel unsteady. Or maybe it was the touch of Heero’s hands all over him, at his cock, at his back, stroking, touching, burning through him.

They tumbled, off balance to the opened doorway and Trowa braced himself against the frame, Heero’s body colliding, grinding against him. His lips left Trowa’s and his mouth found his left nipple, bit down, pulled back and Trowa grabbed at Heero's hair, already so damn hard, and he demanded the attention to where he ached to be touched, his dick throbbing.

"Fuck," he said, as Heero finished his torture on his nipple, the abused flesh smarting though in a way that sent a spark down to his cock.

It was difficult to stand, using the frame for support as Heero smirked, looked up as he slid down Trowa’s chest, mouthing over bandages and skin alike until he got to the thin line of hair that led to the waistband of boxer shorts. Instead of removing them Heero blew hot air over the fabric, nuzzled his nose against his straining erection, until Trowa couldn't take it anymore.

"Damn it, Heero, do something."

He did, took the head through fabric, the wet heat making Trowa's eyes slide closed but the layer of fabric was damn annoying. He bucked forward, instincts driving him forward, achieving nothing but pain as Heero was only letting the head slide between his lips through boxer shorts.

The deep groan, the noise he made gave some indication to Heero as the lips were gone, the soaked front of his boxer shorts sticking to his dick and Trowa reached down, inside, and stroked. He realised why Heero had gone, the first aid kit fallen to the floor with the coffee mugs had something in to use as lube and he held a tube in his fingers as he watched Trowa's hand work over his cock in the confines of boxers.

"Off," Heero ordered as he stood, approached, and Trowa complied, material sliding down his legs, pooling around his ankles, naked now except for bandages. But he kept his hand wrapped around his cock, hard, leaking at the tip and he slowly moved his fist – Heero's eyes tracing up and down his body, the feeling making him hot and wanting.

He didn't beg Heero, didn't need to, Heero was his mirror, his reflection through stained glass, and he knew what Trowa wanted.

"On the bunk.”

Trowa complied – a good soldier taking orders – walking to the bed, lying down on his back, the movement of his hand ceasing and he felt the cool rough sheets against his skin. He spread his long legs for Heero to come in between them, one draped over the side due to the size of the bunk, saying "fuck me" non-verbally. Didn't need words. Not with Heero.

Didn't need to encourage him as he slid in between his legs, kneeling between them and Heero’s finger slid in, quick, harsh, left him panting, arching into the touch, temporary stitches hurting, and Heero twisted it, his mouth on Trowa's neck. He could feel Heero's cock against his thigh, hard and hot, clothed in thin shorts.

The finger inside him became two, then three, driven into him with a varying degree of pressure – sometimes harder, sometimes gentler, Heero fucking him with his fingers, making him shudder and push back and want. Making him see sparks, hitting prostate, his dick twitching in response, his hand reaching to touch, slide along his cock until Heero saw, grabbed at his hand, pushed it down to the bed, his fingers harsh around the rope burns.

Trowa panted, demanded, and Heero fulfilled that – pulling down his own shorts, throwing them off the bunk – and he watched Heero lube up, watched the cock he wanted inside him as Heero's fingers stroked himself more than necessary, his control a tease. Trowa acted then, despite the heaviness in his legs, and he wrapped one around Heero, pulled him forward, reached for his face with his free hand, leaned up and kissed him. He grunted in pain as his aching body protested but Heero pushed in, and he felt the slide of his dick, intense and fucking _good._

Trowa's lips slid from the kiss, his back hitting the mattress as Heero released his wrist, grabbed at his hips, aligned Trowa's body how he wanted it, his hands grazing bruised and broken skin.

Only the first thrusts were tentative, shallow, as Trowa felt Heero's dick so damn hard and hot inside him, his slickened movement slow, the opening act for what they both wanted.

Heero was leaning over him, his t-shirt still on, and Trowa pulled at the fabric, fisted his hand in it, feeling the material begin to break in his fingers at each slow slide. The beginning was always like this, long times between their fucks due to their work and Trowa missed the feeling of Heero taking him, fucking him, dominating him, and he tried to brace himself against the bunk underneath him as Heero's hips sped up.

He crashed into Trowa then, Heero's cock almost out of his body entirely before it plunged back in, the force of Heero's body making Trowa slide to the end of the bunk, his head hitting the metal behind him from the strength and pressure of Heero fucking him. 

Heero's eyes stayed open in the dark, staring down at him, and Trowa kept that gaze, one hand in the t-shirt, the other latched tight in his hair – not closing his own eyes as he pushing up into Heero's downwards thrusts despite pain, the weariness and the dead weight of his limbs. He wanted this. Heero. Everything his partner could give him.

Each rough touch, each kiss laced with tongue and teeth, each plunge of his cock inside and each slide of his hand over Trowa's dick, firm, assured, knowing how to bring him to climax – how to make him come.

Heero was heat, violent passion, and Trowa grabbed onto that – liked that – didn't want normality and real life worries, wanted the faded memory of dead men killed only hours before and the confident thrusts of a man whose desires were just as dark as his own. Who liked a hint of pain with his fucks. Trowa had been raised by mercs. Heero by an assassin. Really what could they expect? A house in the suburbs and a wife and a decent job?

No. This. Rough sex and violent missions and the adrenalin of a life lived close to the edge.

Heero's hand sped up around Trowa’s cock, his hips a steady and fast rhythm. Trowa felt it all build and Heero hit that spot inside him, again and again, with accuracy, and Trowa came, his body protesting in both pleasure and pain, his hand finally ripping through the fabric of Heero's t-shirt.

Trowa's orgasm made him drag Heero further into him with his leg and Heero faltered, a low grunt of "yes" whispered across his lips, his face knotted in concentration and his eyes closing as he came.

Trowa felt it, the shudder of his body above him, and a moment later Heero shakily moved off him, no need for post-sex contact. No need for kisses and the gentle nuzzling of flesh and whatever normal people did. Instead, Heero got his shorts from the floor as Trowa laid back on the bed, stretching his arms, the movement making him realise he'd popped some stitches as a rivulet of blood ran down his bicep and the sheets underneath were dark with blood from re-opened wounds.

Heero's t-shirt was badly damaged and he removed it, threw it to the floor, and as he prepared to walk out of the room he looked over at Trowa.

"I'll re-do your stitches."

Trowa nodded to that and got up slowly, grabbed for clean boxer shorts, cum pooling on his stomach, his body weary but satisfied, and he walked back to sit at the table where he had been eating only minutes before. He watched as Heero found the necessary items from the med kit and came to sit beside him, took hold of his arm to inspect where the wound had reopened.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Nothing I can't deal with."

Heero made a soft noise, staunched the bleeding, disinfected the wound with something that made Trowa hiss quietly and removed what remained of the stitches to replace with new.

As Trowa watched each careful touch, each stitch putting his flesh back together, he knew what they had was not normal but in their own way the name of the boat was appropriate. It wasn't the good life “normal” people aspired to but to two men who met as boys in war, raised by killers and bringing death to those that deserved it, this was the good life.


	2. Chapter 2

Heero blinked blood from his eyes, the cut on his forehead meaning that it slid down his face and matted in his eyelashes. The explosion had gone off early, unexpected, rocking them into the metal walls and debris and Heero had hit his head hard against the shining steel, a thin line across his skin showing where he’d impacted.

They had stopped after the first round of explosions caused the distraction they had needed – a distraction that drew out many of the smugglers into the main air hangar of the base and let them slip through the perimeter undetected. They had ducked into a medical supply room as they had memorised the old OZ base’s blueprints and they had known it had been close by. It provided a place to hide temporarily and also for Trowa to patch up the wound, much to Heero's annoyance.

The wound was superficial, no need for any attention until they were back in Nairobi, but Trowa was forceful, insistent, knocking out a doctor and locking him in a medical supply closet once he had acquired the relevant materials to cover Heero's wound. It was not deep enough for stitches, so Heero thought, and though the steady bleeding obscured his vision, he was fine and he’d told Trowa that through gritted teeth. But they needed to wait, wait for some of the dust to settle from the explosion before they made their way further into the base to find Villiers, the leader of this group of smugglers, and complete their mission. So Heero consented to hiding in the medical room, giving them time to regroup, to calm a little from the adrenalin of battle, of gunfire, of the ringing in their ears from the deafening sound of explosives.

Trowa made sure he locked the metallic door, pulled a cabinet over it – the movement loud and obnoxious – and then he turned his attention towards Heero, who had sat up on the examination table, the bag of weapons and explosives on the floor. He’d sat as that was what Trowa had told him to do and he’d forced him with his hips and strong hands.

"Don't," Heero said as Trowa approached, swabs and bandages and a bottle of water in his hand.

Trowa didn't answer, only grabbed at Heero's hair, pulled his head back and made Heero splutter and close his eyes as water washed away blood from his eyes. The pain of the hand in his hair and the sting of the wound made him hiss. It was not true pain but pain enough and he growled at Trowa for his rough treatment though he wanted it – liking the tight hold in his hair and the way Trowa touched him without caring about his comfort. A little pain was always a turn on.

A little pain, a little blood in his mouth all made Heero groan pathetically as Trowa touched the wound with a swab. But it was not due to the sharp tang of physical discomfort – it was due to the spike of arousal that stirred in his gut at the proximity of Trowa, the hand hard in his hair, the smell of his partner close to him.

Trowa smelt of sweat, of explosives and gunpowder, and Heero licked his lips, tasting the bloody water that had slipped down his face from Trowa’s attempt to clean the wound and green eyes narrowed at the response, at the little cues that Heero gave. So much of their relationship was built on mutual looks, on small touches, on scant words that Heero didn’t have to give Trowa much to make him aware that he wanted him – that he wanted him closer.

Heero’s hand went for Trowa’s wrist, the one with the swab, and he held it tight, making him drop the contents of his hand to the gurney underneath him. He saw Trowa swallow, the movement of his throat making Heero remember how it felt when Trowa deep-throated him, on his knees, submissively letting him thrust in and out of his mouth, holding his hair in between his fingers as he did. Instinctively Heero reached up to grab him, hard, lodging a hand at the back of his neck and pulling him down to kiss his bloody battered lips.

The kiss wasn’t enough even though it tasted of the coppery tang of blood and their tongues slid against one another, hot, slick, thrusting into each other’s mouths as they moved closer together, flush against one another, the rough fabric of their black ops gear against their skins.

It was wrong – not because of the violence of the moment, not because they roughly touched each other and ground together with barely restrained aggression – devouring each other, satisfying their needs. It was wrong because they were in an old OZ base and they had a mission to do, a man to interrogate and kill. And interrogate was perhaps a euphemism for the real intent of the mission. They would get the intelligence the Preventers needed via whatever force was necessary as they always did. That’s why they weren’t officially employed by the organisation, that’s why they got encrypted messages via secure channels and money paid into secure accounts in the Caymans. The mission was important, their role, the pain they would implement on the unsuspecting Villiers to acquire what Preventer needed. They did what no one else would do. No one else was willing. Violence and pain were part of their existences since childhood. These missions suited them.

But despite Heero’s devotion to missions during the wars, now he forgot about it with the way Trowa dragged at his lip, the way he slid his hands down to his ass and firmly squeezed and pulled him close, making him pant and reach for the stiff material of Trowa’s pants, reach for the zipper and efficiently bring out his dick, stroking it, already hard and he felt his usually quiet partner grunt as their lips parted.

“Fuck,” Trowa murmured and he leaned his head against Heero’s shoulder as his hand continued a quick rhythm, a little rough, that he knew Trowa liked. “We can’t.”

“Too late,” Heero growled back, his other hand fisting the short hairs at the back of his partner’s neck, pulling Trowa’s head back so that their lips could meet again, the taste of salt and blood shared between their mouths.

Trowa responded by grabbing at the hand on his cock, stopping the movement as he groped for some of the supplies he’d brought from the medical closet, his green eyes darkening as he reached for the Vaseline that Heero guessed he’d intended to use on the cut to stop the blood from running into his eyes. He returned to hovering over Heero, their faces close, their breath and hair mingling together – lighter brown and darker brown combining. Heero reached down to his own pants, retaining eye contact as he pushed them down with the boxer briefs and he watched as Trowa’s gaze moved appreciatively to his cock, a firm hand wrapping around it.

“Quick,” Heero ordered and Trowa smirked as he coated fingers in the sticky substance.

“Orders, Yuy?”

Heero grunted at the sarcasm, at the deadpan comment delivered but he didn’t have time to do anything else as a finger slid inside him with little preamble – a brief tease around the ring of muscles the only warning he got as one thrust inside and his head went back at the sensation that seemed to thrum up his spine and into all his senses. The prep would be rough but it was what they needed, both of them, and Heero could take it. He could take everything Trowa gave him – each firm stroke of his aching dick, each thrust in of his fingers, each time he bit and nipped and ran fingernails down his back. They needed it to be like this – always like this – and Heero tried to remember if they’d ever gently slid under the covers together like he’d done with previous lovers but with Trowa – with Trowa, Heero could be uncontained, and Trowa would take everything he gave.

The finger prepping him became more, scissoring and touching inside him, and Heero closed his eyes, concentrating on the dual sensation of his cock being stroked and those fingers stretching. He moaned loudly when Trowa hit the spot and he heard a sound that escaped Trowa’s lips that sounded vaguely feral as he knew then that he’d given Heero pleasure, that he’d hit prostate and there was a satisfaction to that.

He pushed Trowa off him, hard, the violence of the movement confused his partner until Heero hopped down and leaned over the gurney, throwing a glance over his shoulder that indicated it was Trowa’s move. There was no more communication needed as Trowa came behind him, his mouth at Heero’s neck, a small bite there, his lips sucking and worrying at the skin, marking him as Heero’s head fell forward, feeling the first press of Trowa’s hard dick into him. He breathed deeply, trying to calm some of his adrenalin and the tension in his body to ease Trowa’s entry. Heero slid his hand down to his cock, stroking himself, biting his lip as Trowa pushed in, his warm breath hot on the back of his neck.

The metal of the gurney was cold as Heero moved his fingers to grip it but he felt the warmth of Trowa inside him, of an arm over his chest, keeping him close as he adjusted to the sensation of being filled, the slight burn and pain of quick preparation and penetration.

“Ready?” Trowa whispered into Heero’s ear, his voice low and strained.

It was a tone that Heero recognised and it sent a spark of arousal down his already aching dick and he grunted in affirmation so that Trowa knew he could move. The first powerful thrust of hips made Heero lose some balance but Trowa gripped him, secured him close so that he maintained his position, their bodies pressed together so tightly and making each move of Trowa’s cock deep and hard into Heero’s body.

They knew they didn’t have time, the urgency and environment making them move fast against each other, the taste of blood and the metallic smell of lingering explosives in his nostrils. Trowa’s body was firm, strong, and Heero felt every powerful rock of his hips drive him forward as he attempted to push back to demand more from the man behind him – the man who fucked him, who breathed against his skin and who reached his hand to his cock, rubbing his calloused thumb against the slit, making Heero’s breathing ragged, his senses alive from the pleasure of each forceful move of Trowa’s body. 

The sound of a siren made Heero jerk instinctively, a delayed response from the explosions in the hangar bay and he reached back towards Trowa, encouraging him to move quicker, and Trowa complied. The orders he issued to Trowa whether in a mission or during their rough sex were mostly non-verbal as they didn’t need words, they were both men of action. Trowa sped up his movement, the deep plunges making Heero squeeze his eyes closed and pant out as he hit that spot inside him again and again, the fist wrapped around his own dick speeding up in time and he was close, so fucking close, as the wails of the sirens reverberated around the metal halls and corridors.

“Fuck,” Trowa whispered and Heero recognised the cue and bucked back, the move making them as close as they possibly could be as Trowa came, the soft groan a sound that Heero was familiar with and liked.

He knew how Trowa looked despite not seeing his face and while their relationship was not one of love – it was of mutual need and desire – he still knew how those green eyes would close, how there would be a crinkle at the corner, how his mouth would part and his forehead would crease in concentration. And if they were face to face, Heero would push and pull at that bang of hair while they fucked to see those eyes but now all he had was the image behind his own closed eyelids as Trowa thrust a few times, riding out his orgasm, stroking him firmly, the rough tugs at his dick making Heero follow, cum slashing onto the metal table, the sound of sirens ringing in his ears.

They stood connected for a few moments, basking briefly in the post-coital high even in the extreme situation but they needed to continue their mission so Trowa pulled out, finding tissues to wipe away the cum and sweat, offering one to Heero as he did the same, throwing them into the trash.

Heero pulled up his pants, quickly re-dressing as Trowa walked towards the door, still blocked by the cabinet, and moved the heavy furniture out of the way so that they could exit. Though before he unlocked the door, he walked back over to where Heero stood against the gurney and reached out a hand to Heero’s shaggy bangs, a little damp from water and sweat and blood. He gently moved the hair and looked at the wound.

“Let me.”

He met Trowa’s eyes, the deep soulful green, and inclined his head slightly, responding to the gentle touch of his hand. Trowa picked up the supplies, dabbing away the blood to see the scar and he applied liquid sutures, closing the wound and securing an adhesive bandage over it, smoothing it over with his thumb. The feel of Trowa’s hands reminded Heero of being a boy in a trailer, healing after his unsuccessful self-destruction, and they had done this too many times. Too many times had they both been wounded, both bleeding or bruised or broken, only to be tended to by the other and Heero knew they would continue this cycle of sex and missions and violence for as long as they both were alive.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice low and husky and Trowa only gave the tiniest of smiles – the slightest curve of lips before he reached for the backpack filled with explosives and equipment – knives, pliers and whatever else would be required for them to get Villiers to talk.

“Any time.”

And without another word, a few glances and nods, they re-secured their weapons, unlocked the door and left the medical room. Working in tandem, they moved through the base to find Villiers, ready to do what they needed to, together as they had been for years. Their relationship was not normal, they didn’t go on dates or even live in one place and their job was one full of blood and explosions and fire, but it did not matter as they had each other and the rush of each violent mission. 


	3. Chapter 3

It was a jungle, the trees knotted close together, large leaves obscuring the sunshine and water droplets dripped from above. The sound of insects seemed loud in the dense undergrowth and the occasional rustle of leaves indicated some other bigger animals. Birds cawed, loud unwavering noises and Trowa looked up to see one fly away, too far now to see anything but the flap of wings as it disappeared.

The heat was intense and Trowa’s footing was not as firm as he would like as he followed Heero, walking a few steps behind his partner. It had not been a smooth extraction and Trowa would grumble at Heero later, tell him that it had been a fuck up but first they needed to get as far away from the prison as they could.

Trowa had been in a prison in Cambodia for three weeks. He had been sent as a certain prisoner had some information regarding a terrorist network and the only way to get that information was for someone to infiltrate the prison. And infiltrating a prison meant being locked up, being thrown in with the vilest criminals imaginable and Trowa had known it had to him out of the two of them. Heero wasn’t as good at blending in as he was and Trowa’s grasp of languages due to a childhood drifting among merc groups meant he could communicate. So Trowa had gone in, Trowa had talked to the right people, traded with the right people and found out who funded the terrorist network and then all he had to do was wait for Heero’s extraction.

It had been damp, squalid, awful conditions – a cell shared with four other men and one pot to piss in. To say it had been unpleasant would’ve been an understatement but then Trowa had still probably experienced worse. And he had known he would get out – he knew Heero would come for him at the designated time once he had gained the relevant intelligence. And he had been able to survive in the prison, the fights, the attempts to knife him in the back, the food which had been rice cooked in dirty water with the occasional vegetables, as he knew within a few short weeks, Heero would blast through the walls, hold out his hand and lead him out. Then there would be a week of hot sex and sunshine somewhere in Asia as far away from fucking Cambodia as possible but right now, Trowa was still a little annoyed at Heero –his usual perfectness a little off.

“You okay?” Heero asked, his voice low as he looked back for a moment, realising Trowa was further behind than he expected.

“Yeah,” Trowa growled, veiled anger in the word.

He was “okay” – he had been injured worse before. When the blast had rocked the prison, the response had been chaos and Trowa had been caught in the crushing of desperate men searching for freedom. Not that Trowa blamed them – his stay in the secret political prison had been a vacation and those other’s men – they were there forever. And no one would ever get near them. So when it got rough, when the building began to crumble and men fought and slashed with make shift shivs, Trowa had ended up stabbed in the back once, not too hard, and slammed into some debris. He was sure his shoulder was dislocated as he’d done it once before, at the circus, on the high wire and his walk was awkward with his arm hanging limply at his side. Yeah, he was okay but that was because he was fucking Trowa Barton – childhood mercenary, former Gundam pilot and secret Preventer agent. If he were a normal man he would’ve curled up and fucking given in, pain radiating down his spine and into all his senses.

“We can stop.”

The offer was there and Heero had not looked him in the eye – not turned to look at his face to see him grimace. Trowa wouldn’t admit to Heero he was weak – that he’d not been fed decent food since their last night in Phnom Penh, room service ordered on the Preventer’s dime, shared naked between rounds of rough needy sex, eating to recover energy to continue to explore every inch of each other’s perfect bodies. And that was before the blast, the pain, the stab wound he was bleeding from.

“You sure?” Trowa asked.

Heero nodded, glancing in his direction. “There’s a stream. I can patch you up.”

Trowa wanted to ask whether they were far enough away from the prison as his ability to track the distance they had travelled was hampered by the way he felt, by the throbbing in his head, by the stabbing aches in his muscles so he trusted Heero as he always damn did, trusted his innate skills that made him a fucking good agent and had ensured his survival in a life of hardship and violence. Instead, of asking anything Trowa only followed as he heard the stream, the sound of trickling water filling his ears and he watched as Heero dropped the backpack to the floor, kneeling down beside it and retrieving whatever supplies he thought he needed. Trowa walked slowly, his feet heavy and knelt beside the stream, using his good hand to splash water on his face, washing the beard he’d acquired as he tried to remove some of the dirt and grime from his features.

“Your shoulders dislocated,” Heero observed coolly and Trowa nodded.

He knew why Heero said it and Trowa understood. He needed it putting back into place. There was no point waiting until they were free of the damn jungle so he merely turned, offering his body to Heero to do what he wanted with it. And Heero removed his leather belt, the sound of the buckle seemingly loud and he offered it for Trowa to put in his mouth. He accepted it, remembering the severe sharp pain of it being put back into place and Heero grabbed hold of his arm firmly, pushing like he knew how, and the pain was immense, Trowa biting down on the leather as his shoulder “popped” back into place.

He didn’t make a sound as he slipped the belt out of his mouth, the indents of his teeth in the black leather, handing it back to Heero.

“Strip,” Heero ordered and Trowa did as he commanded, weak and with no ability to fight, and he needed his wounds tended to, needed the bleeding to stop so he consented, pride and stubbornness gone. He’d seen Heero bleeding and wounded and tended for him. He’d seen him weak. And Heero was the only person who would ever see him like this – vulnerable and in pain.

The prison had given them itchy grey jumpsuits, utilitarian in design, shapeless and numbered, and Trowa now unzipped the material, dirty and sweat stained, parting it down his chest where a grimy white tank top looked as grey as the jumpsuit after his time in the prison. Keeping the prisoners supplied with clean clothing had not been priority.

“Wash.”

Trowa glared at Heero as he busied himself with the first aid kit and so he finished stripping the material away, letting the jumpsuit fall to the ground, the tank and boxers following. It wasn’t that he damn cared, stood naked in the jungle as Heero had seen it all before – knew it all intimately, had kissed and caressed every part of him and he walked to the stream, wading in, the cold immediate after the heat of the hike.

The cold water was more refreshing than the showers at the prison – Trowa had known he would’ve been a target despite his height, his broad shoulders, his muscles so that the first day in the cold shower block, he had been pushed and he had fought back, breaking a man’s wrist, giving another a black eye. So he had limited his showers after that – afraid that there would be more men and he would potentially be outnumbered. So the water felt refreshing as he submerged himself, raking his fingers through his hair as he got out the blood and sweat and dirt from his bang, from his beard, washing his skin with his hands in the frigid water.

Clean, cold, he stepped out, Heero watching his moves, there were no towels, but Heero had clean clothes, boxers, combat pants, a t-shirt and Trowa dried himself a little with his dirty jump suit before slipping on the boxers and sitting on the ground to let Heero patch him up, knowing that’s what Heero wanted him to do.

He felt Heero’s fingers trace the scars on his back, the new ones and Trowa couldn’t help the slight shiver at the touch, not from the cold of the water as the jungle was damn hot, stifling but from touch that wasn’t laced with violence and pain. Heero’s fingers were assured, careful, a man who could bend metal, who had killed numerous men with his bare hands, now carefully traced his wounds.

“It’ll need stitches back in the Phnom Penh.”

“Do whatever.”

Heero didn’t say anything, applying medical glue, bandages, wrapping up where he had been bleeding and Trowa trusted him implicitly. His body was always broken, damaged but Heero could always heal it. Just as he could do the same to Heero and had been doing it since they were fifteen.

The bandaging complete, Trowa was going to move, dress but he stopped, stalled as he felt a kiss on his neck, a lick to his pulse and he leaned back into that sensation as hands moved to wrap around him, fingers tracing patterns over his chest. Heero’s hands were gentle, skittering across his bruised skin and he was mouthing his flesh, kissing at his shoulder, touching him in a way that made Trowa’s body respond. He’d missed Heero.

“Fuck,” he breathed as Heero ran his hand down his abs, reaching into the waistband of those boxers, finding his cock, half hard and stroking it to full hardness.

It had been too fucking long, too much violence in that prison, too much pain, that to feel someone touch him and that someone being Heero was too damn good. It made Trowa close his eyes, lean back into Heero’s body as he continued to stroke him, his dick leaking at the tip as Heero kept up his rhythm, running his hand down the full length, pumping him, running his thumb over the head and slicking the moisture over the tip.

He was close quick, biting at his bottom lip, his thighs tensing and Heero’s hand stopped causing Trowa’s eyes to open wide, but the pause was momentary as Heero moved from behind him, silently, pushing him to the leaf strewn floor and his lips kissing down Trowa’s chest, his tongue lapping around his nipple, his lips following the trail of new and old scars until he was swallowing Trowa’s cock, taking it deep in his mouth, moaning around it in pleasure and Trowa surrendered completely – no longer feeling pain, only feeling the sensation of Heero’s mouth, hot and warm, his hips thrusting lightly into it, the coil of release building in his gut. His fingers touched Heero’s hair, thick and coarse, damp from sweat and he looked down once to watch before he let his head drop to the floor, looking up at the canopy. He wondered if this was Heero’s apology – the apology for being the one sent to a secret prison in the middle of fucking nowhere, his apology for the extraction he’d fucked up, his hardships… Trowa didn’t care as a finger moved, teased, and he felt his body jerk, his dick twitch and he came, hard deep into Heero’s mouth.

Panting, he wiped sweat from his forehead, as he felt those lips leave him after one more suck around the head. He felt Heero then, hovering over him and Trowa leaned up for a kiss, Heero ignoring his beard and Trowa ignoring the salty taste on his tongue.

When their mouths parted, Trowa raised an eyebrow in question but Heero was moving off him, packing away the first aid kit into the backpack, letting Trowa dress in the clothes he’d left on the ground pulling them awkwardly over his shoulder and his aching body, the intensity of orgasm washing away and leaving him with the aches of his time in the prison and his extraction.

Once he was dressed, Trowa pushed back his still damp hair from his face and looked over to Heero, ready to move on as though nothing had happened. He wanted to ask why, why he’d been so intense and intent on giving Trowa pleasure, why his hands had ghosted over his skin, making him feel things he’d not felt in weeks but instead he gave him a little nod to indicate he was ready to move, to follow Heero’s lead.

Heero took the sign, slung the backpack over his shoulder, looked up to the darkened canopy and then began to walk, following the stream.

“We should get to the vehicle before nightfall,” he said and Trowa answered in a small grunt, walking beside him, his steps a little more assured now that his shoulder no longer hung limply from its socket.

As Trowa walked, he suddenly felt Heero’s fingers brush his arm and Trowa looked at his hand on his own skin – how Heero’s skin was darker against his own paleness and he heard the words, soft, an apology that Heero so rarely gave.

“I’m sorry.”

Trowa’s answer was a touch of his hand on Heero’s shoulder, feeling the sweat of their hike and they continued walking, side by side, no more words necessary.


	4. Chapter 4

The market was busy, the streets thin and buildings seemed taller, larger, casting shadows over the ground below. Heero was running, trying his best not to crash into people, trying his damn best to get away from his pursuers as he looked back once to see them still on his tail, growling in frustration.

His turn back, even though it was brief, made him lose some momentum, some focus and he bumped into a woman, her dropping some of her shopping from the market, he muttered an apology but didn’t do anything else to help. Maybe in the past Heero Yuy wouldn’t have even given the apology but now at least he did that as he jumped over the items on the floor and continued.

There were three men following him, two had slowed down as expected as Heero could run forever, could maybe not run as fast as Trowa due to those long legs but Heero could run without exhaustion, without pain in his muscles so he just needed to keep going. Fuck, he would get out of the city if he needed to, keep going and loop back to get to the room they’d rented and return to Trowa whenever he damn well could.

Heero had not expected the resistance. It was a tiny police station, one where they had been told there was some information regarding a Preventer agent who had been arrested that needed to be retrieved and all traces of that arrest gone. Heero had snickered when they had received the mission brief. As Zechs Merquise should’ve learnt by now to keep a low profile, not get drunk and act disorderly on vacation, and so they’d gone in to make sure there was never any record of it having happened.

The technology in the station had been so fucking antiquated that it had taken more time than Heero anticipated. As just turning the thing on, loading on a virus had taken time Heero was not used to needing. And of course, they’d come back, the officers who’d realised he was doing something he shouldn’t with the computer. And while they were probably naïve, Heero knocked them out, slicing his hand against the back of one of the men’s head and the other he’d viscously choked. Finally, the two men down, the programme had done its work, the traces gone and Heero had made his exit. Into a group of police officers. He’d kicked out at a few, dodged bullets and run out of the station, pursued by men shouting angrily at him to stop in Arabic.

And now there was only one and Heero glanced back once before he turned a corner, sticking to the wall in an alleyway and watching as the officer passed it by, not noticing his stealthy slip into the darkness. He took a few deep breaths, not that he was out of breath but to calm some of the adrenalin and he checked his watch, giving the man five minutes before he walked back out into the main street.

He felt in the pocket of his cargo shorts, bringing out some money, bartering for a baseball cap and an obnoxious orange shirt, slipping out of his khaki one and putting the offensive colour on, the black baseball cap secured on his head. It was a Duo trick, the baseball cap, and while Heero didn’t think it was all that effective when Duo had a damn three foot braid peeking out of the back, he used his method, walking now in different coloured clothing, walking slowly, looking at stalls of spices and clothes and ceramics as though he was interested, picking up some fruit, haggling the price down and carrying it in a paper bag.

He saw the authorities, more men around and he continued his walk, none of them looking his way as the description had obviously been passed around with him in the khaki shirt – not some orange thing. Heero smirked as he walked right past a group of men and he looked back, dipping his cap a little to obscure his distinctive eyes and going on his way, them not giving the tourist another glance.

They were staying in some rental apartment but it was generous to call it an apartment and Heero could hear the sound of loud TV’s as he walked to their temporary place, knocking on the door in a pattern to alert Trowa it was him before he opened the door with the key. They’d developed the system back in the war, the rapping of knuckles on the trailer door as Heero had been so damn paranoid then, only trusting Trowa and Cathy and they still used it today. It meant instead of a gun in his face, Trowa only looked over from the laptop and gave Heero a searching glance, his eyes settling on the garish orange of his shirt.

“Trouble?” he asked, a slight smirk on his lips and Heero went to the kitchen area, placing down the fruit before he walked over to Trowa.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

As Heero stepped towards him, he challenged Trowa with his eyes to comment on the clothes, the hat but Trowa only watched, amusement showing in his green eyes.

“No comment, Barton?”

Heero stopped in front of Trowa and moved the laptop to the floor, noticing that Trowa was checking accounts, travel routes, time to move on again as always, a new mission already been assigned and then he felt Trowa’s long fingers on the fabric of the shirt.

“It’s not your colour,” he said, his voice flat and deadpan and Heero would’ve laughed if he was the sort of man that laughed but instead he snorted, as Trowa reached up to the hat, taking it off. “And I don’t like the hat.”

“Next job?”

Trowa nodded, his fingers returning to Heero’s side, this time bypassing the material of the shirt, his fingers splaying across his back, rubbing in circles, forcing him a few steps closer. He could smell Trowa, the smell of his sweat from the heat of the room, the smell of faded cologne, the smell of his last meal and coffee on his breath and sweat dripped down Heero’s back, a trail down from his neck and he pressed forward, straddling Trowa on the bed, the stupid damn single with the thin mattress they’d been sharing. They’d had worse.

“Panama,” Trowa said as his fingers moved, teased, and Heero nodded as lips moved to his throat, Trowa mouthing there as it didn’t really matter where – it was another job, another place, another violent mission. This one had been mild, brief, a correcting of one agents fuck up, and Heero wondered if it had been a damn vacation for them – Preventer knowing that the next one would be tough.

Right now Heero didn’t give a fuck, only grabbed at the hair at the back of Trowa’s hair and pulled him up for a bruising kiss, Trowa responding by a quick and violent move, pushing Heero forcefully onto the bed, the metal springs making a noise of complaint at the force. But the force was good. Arousing him, his dick hard in the cargo shorts from the minor amount of foreplay. Maybe it was the high from his run, from his escape, from a success even if it was a small one but then maybe it was Trowa, pushing him to the fucking bed, dominating him like Trowa only ever did. But Heero didn’t submit underneath him, he was grabbing at the material of his t-shirt, fisting it and he was dragging his teeth down Trowa’s skin, leaving red marks in its wake.

“The shirt, Yuy.”

Heero pushed Trowa hard, making him sit back on his heels as he undid the buttons but then he got impatient, he wasn’t fucking keeping it so he pulled, the buttons parting and Trowa looked amused as he pulled it off, sliding the tank top off in its wake, looking up at Trowa through his bangs, his eyes heavy lidded.

“Clothes, Barton,” he responded, knowing they were playing this game – orders, names, and Trowa removed his t-shirt, throwing it to the floor, his own shorts following, boxers removed without ceremony. They didn’t need to strip for each other anymore, no tease was needed as they had been together too damn long, been partners, lover since their teens so Heero’s shorts and boxer briefs fell to the floor, joining the pile of clothing and the stupid fucking orange shirt.

Naked now, sweat sticking, their hands grabbed roughly, Trowa maintaining his position on top and he grabbed at one of Heero’s thighs, making him hook his leg around his waist. Heero used the leverage to grind his dick up against Trowa’s body, his body slick and sweaty, pre-cum leaking from his cock. He grabbed for Trowa’s hair, pushing back the bang, meeting his eye and there was a challenge in the look Heero gave him, one that Trowa accepted, manoeuvring to find the lube on the small table beside the bed, returning his body to covering Heero’s, Trowa’s fingers dragging on Heero’s thighs.

There was a wrestle for position, hands grabbing, dicks slicking against each other, legs damn entwined but Heero gained some advantage somewhere, pushing down Trowa, his hands on his broad shoulders, Trowa smirked looking up at Heero and his searching eyes scanned his torso. Heero was scarred, damaged, wounded in so many damn ways. As a child, as a teenager he had healed but as the years went by, whatever had been done, whatever had been pumped into him had faded and so each livid mark on his skin became darker, more pronounced but shit, Trowa’s body was the same.

Riddled with scars, criss-crosses of his life and Heero traced one with his finger tip, slick with sweat and he found Trowa’s large hand, grabbing it and indicating the next move, Trowa following his lead wordlessly, the lube procured from where it had fallen in the shuffle, slicking it on his fingers before Trowa thrust them inside Heero, making him arch his back.

It was perhaps a little more gentle than usual if only a little, Heero straddling Trowa, his head falling onto his chest as Trowa’s fingers slowly stretched him. Heero rocked his body on those fingers after a while, forcing the movement forward, the sensual speed replaced by neediness and when Trowa withdrew his fingers, Heero didn’t take any time in reaching for his cock, impaling himself on it, the breath drawn from his lungs at the familiar sensation, the burn and stretch of Trowa inside him.

“Fuck,” Heero breathed out, the sweat, the heat, the feel of Trowa inside him intense and shit, when Trowa rocked his hips up, Heero almost felt his eyes roll back into his head. It was always too fucking good – rough and perfect and everything Heero would ever want.

He’d always fucking want those green eyes, the confident movement of Trowa’s hands, his thrusts of his hips, his scarred pale skin. Heero never wanted fucking normal, he wanted Trowa Barton, damaged and violent and equally fucked up – mocking him for a stupid cover, giving him that slight curve of lips, always challenging him, making him survive, live, fight.

Heero bunched his thighs, moving up and down, feeling Trowa’s hand grasp his hips, helping them create a fast pace together, too fucking fast but Heero didn’t want it any other way, fast and hot, sticky, messy – perfect sex was never romance and candles and champagne and this was better than perfect sex. Rough. Bruising. Quick.

Each downward motion of Heero’s body was met by Trowa’s movements up, his dick deep, and fuck, Heero only tried to keep up, the thrusts upwards so confident that Trowa was hitting his damn prostate on each slick move of their bodies. Heero came, needing only the lightest of touches to his cock and Trowa used the temporary limpness of Heero’s orgasm to flip their positions, fucking him hard until he grunted into Heero’s skin, collapsing onto him.

Trowa rolled off him, sitting on the edge of the bed, and Heero reached to his scarred back, tracing the mark from a whip that was years old.

“Flights?” Heero asked sitting up behind Trowa, his lips kissing at a scar on his shoulder blades.

“Tomorrow morning.”

Trowa got up, walking over to where Heero had left the fruit, using one of the large blades, cutting up the apple as he returned to the bed, offering Heero a piece.

“Tonight?”

The pad of Trowa’s thumb went over his jaw. “You and me.”

Heero nodded, took a bite from the piece offered and then leaned towards Trowa, tasting fruit and stale breath and the tang of copper on his tongue.


	5. Chapter 5

There was too much blood, Trowa knew that even as he supported Heero, half carrying him away from the crumbling compound. The main fighting was done, the explosion ripping apart the militia group, and they were now away from the building, on the dirt path, a Jeep Trowa had hoped to steal ablaze and it meant on foot for a while before they could find the motorbike they’d stowed in the forest, covered in tarps, it was just Trowa didn’t know if Heero would make it there.

Fuck, Heero’s head was lolling on his shoulder, his hair bristling against Trowa’s jaw and he had been helping their movement moments before but now he was limp, barely conscious and Trowa made a decision. Heero was not as damn tall he was but he was well built, his defined muscles that Trowa knew so well, that he’d touched and kissed and caressed. Trowa was strong but Heero was heavy but there was no other way. He stopped, looked back at the burning wreckage, and changed his grip on Heero’s fragile body, putting him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, Heero making a small sound of protest at being manhandled. Trowa knew if he was more lucid, if he wasn’t bleeding so fucking much that Heero would complain about his treatment, about seeming weak in front of Trowa as while they so often were injured, wounded, they were never weak. But shit, Trowa didn’t care if Heero whined, he was carrying the idiot, walking as fast as he damn could.

He’d created a tourniquet, make-shift, around the thigh, stemming the blood flow at least a little yet it was deep, it would definitely need stitches and fuck, he’d lost so much blood he may even need a transfusion and Trowa knew the limits of his medical care. That while his skills had been gained during his childhood, sat beside a disgraced medic, a man who became a merc after mercy killing in field hospitals, Trowa knew that if there was something more complex, he was unable to do anything. And he calculated about whether he would be able to contact Preventer HQ, whether they would be able to get a drop ship and urgent medical care to them quickly enough. But fuck, they didn’t exist, missions were sent on secure channels or passed over to them in random cafes in random cities in brown padded envelopes. It wasn’t like Trowa had a direct line to Une to demand a rescue, an evac, a med-ship. All he had was himself, some supplies with the bike, and Heero.

The distance wasn’t too bad but Trowa could feel Heero’s dead weight, he could feel blood soaking into his own clothes, he could feel the heat of his skin as he tried to increase his pace to a jog as best as he could while carrying his partner.

Heero shouldn’t have been the one wounded, Trowa knew, as it should’ve been him. In the fight, the knife was aimed at him and it was the quickest move, almost too quick for Trowa to realise and Heero had extended his leg, stopping the long sharp blade from penetrating Trowa's skin and instead it went into his own. Trowa had been pissed at the time, the protective gesture not appreciated but then after he’d snapped the neck of the assailant, he'd realised that Heero's cut was deeper than he first thought.

They’d got out, the charges they’d set earlier being activated within safe distance but as Trowa dragged Heero around, he realised it was not okay, making the tourniquet out of his shirt, walking with him as best as he could so that they could escape.

It wasn’t even a fuck up. It was just a consequence to an action, a brief thing, one split second and Trowa was fine, and Heero was goddamn bleeding.

The increase in his pace made Heero’s limp body jostle against Trowa’s body and shit, Trowa did not have time to be careful, instead all he did was move as quickly as he could until he could at least do something more, use some of their med supplies and maybe patch him up.

He thought as they moved through the warm night, the smell of smoke and explosives clinging to the air and their skin, that it was always going to be this – one of them fucked up and broken, the other having to heal them and Trowa wondered if it was damn worth it anymore. Even though they were good, even though each mission was about adrenalin and a high that was as near they could get to piloting a Gundam, maybe it was time to give up before one of them died. The accounts in the Caymans had plenty of money and Trowa didn’t know what they’d do next – or if they’d do anything, all he damn well knew was that it was time for them move the fuck on. They didn’t need to be soldiers anymore.

Not like this.

The path between the trees was dirt and Trowa followed it, counting, he heard Heero mumble, incoherent and he tried to increase his pace, sweat dripping down his face, his hair plastered to his forehead. He tried to count the times he’d healed Heero Yuy – from that first time, the month of unconsciousness, tending to all that damage to all their recent ones – and Trowa knew one day a wound would be too deep, a bullet would hit an artery, an explosion would crush them and so he swallowed back those thoughts, seeing the bike up ahead in the darkness.

He dropped Heero inelegantly to the ground, his head hitting the soft earth, and the jolt appeared to make him more coherent.

“Trowa?” he asked.

“Yeah,” he answered, “I’m here.”

He was, close, finding a torch among their supplies, camping equipment to stay the night in the wild if necessary. And it probably would be. Trowa didn’t dare move Heero. They would be stuck and his own rudimentary medical attention would have to goddamn do.

Rifling through the bag, he found everything he needed, turning his attention back to Heero. Swallowing, Trowa looked, seeing him sweating, bleeding, shivering – he could go into damn shock and probably only his remarkable body, that training, was stopping him.

Trowa undid his makeshift bandaging, growling at the depth of the cut, at the difficulty he’d have in stemming the bleeding and in the dim torch light, he pushed hard, using a pad to soak up the blood, using a bandage tight around Heero’s thigh and hearing Heero voice his complaint, the tightness causing him some discomfort.

“Okay?” he asked.

Heero nodded. “Yeah.”

He tried to move and Trowa pushed down on his chest, feeling the moisture of his t-shirt, the sweat and he remembered forcing a stubborn fifteen year old back to a bed. A fifteen year old who didn’t want to be lying in a bed – fierce blue eyes and determination.

“Stay.”

The command was obeyed and Trowa found the bags on the side of the bike, undoing the canvas and finding the camping supplies. They had planned to get further away from the compound, deeper into the forest but they had no damn choice as Heero was too weak – Trowa didn’t trust him to hold on and so he set up the tent, his eyes drifting to where Heero lay, listening to his damn instructions in the dim torch light.

“We’ll stay the night here,” Trowa said softly once the tent was up and Heero nodded, weary, his blood loss and pain making his usual stubbornness more manageable. His face was set in a grim line as Trowa helped him into the tent – there was no room in their supplies for sleeping bags or comforts but they were sheltered and that had be a fucking enough.

Trowa let Heero sleep, listening to the sound of his breathing as he sat in the flap of the tent, looking out at the forest. He could still see the smoke rising from the compound, the fire still burnibg and if he had it, Trowa would have smoked a cigarette but he picked the grit and dirt and blood from his nails with his blade, whistling a little as he did.

He didn’t think he’d wake Heero as Heero had lost blood and was in pain, but after only a few hours sleep, Trowa heard the movement and then felt a hand on his back.

“You should sleep,” Heero said and Trowa turned to the man he had devoted his life to post-war. He looked bad still, pale, his eyes surrounded by dark circles but his eyes were bright and his face set in a severe expression.

“No, you need it,” he answered but instead of turning back towards the tent, Heero crawled out cautiously, sitting next to Trowa in the dim light of the small fire. Trowa knew better than to instruct Heero to go back inside, to sleep but he still made a “huh” that stated his concern and annoyance subtlety. Heero picked up on his annoyance but ignored it. As always.

But when Heero leaned against him, his head against his shoulder, Trowa’s annoyance abated a little. As he no longer felt feverish, that body healing itself superhumanly even if it was not so much as it used to, and there was a reassurance to the feel of his skin, his hair, the stubble. They didn’t say anything for a while, listening to the sounds of the jungle around them and Trowa could see the smoke still pervading the air from the compound, still ablaze in places hours later, a testament to how well they’d set the charges, how well they’d done their mission. If not for Heero’s injury.

Despite it being fucking hot during the day, the night was a little cooler, especially in the density of trees and Trowa put his arm around Heero, dressed as he was in only boxers and tank, offering him his body heat. Without resistance, Heero moved into him, his warmth, and Trowa finally spoke softly.

“I think it’s time,” he said.

He didn’t elaborate, he felt Heero’s breathing against him. “What do we do next?” Heero asked.

Trowa would’ve shrugged, instead, he answered. “Something else.”

He didn’t know what – fuck, they’d always moved from one mission to the next after the wars, their movements controlled by the Preventers, their lives a series of dangerous and violent situations. It would end with one of them dying and Trowa didn’t want that. It had come too close to that too many damn times.

“Yeah.”

Heero’s voice was quiet in the dense sound of the night but Trowa heard, nodding his head, and disentangling himself from his partners body. “We both sleep.”

There was no protest, even though one of them should watch, even though they could potentially be discovered, and instead, for once, they didn’t live their lives poised in state of readiness, in a state of fight or flight. They both settled inside the tent, Trowa spooning his body behind Heero’s, the position more intimate than all the fucking they had ever done and he kissed at the back of Heero’s neck – tasting the salt of his sweat. He buried his head in Heero’s shoulder, mouthed at him, and ran his fingers down Heero’s firm abdominal muscles, feeling them jump against his touch.

They weren’t going to fuck, Heero wounded, but instead, Trowa slowly jerked him off, his fingers wrapped around his dick, his strokes long and firm, tantalisingly hot, and he continued to kiss and mouth at his pulse, at his shoulder, until Heero came, breathing out his name in short bursts.

“I don’t want you to die,” Trowa said in the aftermath, as Heero’s body relaxed further back into his own.

Heero only made a small noise in affirmation and it was the moment if they were different men that they’d say “I love you”, that “I need you and I always will” but they weren’t and they never would be. They were men who smelled of sweat and blood and cum and spent explosives, lying in a tent in the middle of damn nowhere after killing dozens of men and while they were giving that up they’d never have a normal life and Trowa knew that as he nuzzled the hair at the nape of Heero’s neck, entwined their legs together and fell asleep with him, sticky and hot, the sound of the forest around them.


	6. Chapter 6

The beach bar was quiet even though it would be the lunch time rush if they weren’t in the Caribbean where it was a different pace of life to the colonies, to the world’s biggest cities, it was a place where beers were opened early and fish was grilled on open BBQ’s and sprinkled with lime and sea salt.

Trowa was sat at the bar as Heero observed him from a café, sat outside of it on a little wooden bench, further down the row, his eyes narrowed behind Ray Bans as Trowa did everything an average tourist did, drinking a bottle of beer where condensation poured down the side, eating some grilled fish with his fingers, wearing an obnoxious floral shirt and cargo shorts, a hat perched on his head. Somehow Trowa could look pretty average even though it was such an odd look for Heero to see him dressed as but Trowa had always had that innate ability to blend, to make people glance past him and Heero had often admired it. It was perhaps a skill they’d no longer use for missions, but it was one in their future lives that may come in useful as they would move around the earth sphere, together, without the pressure of the missions and violence that had marked their existences.

Heero drank his own glass of iced water, the bowl of fried plantain only picked at as the sound of a soccer game played on the screen inside the café as he watched unknown behind the sunglasses. The loud drawn out word “goal” sounded on the screen and Heero ignored it, taking a bite and watching as a Preventer agent made their approach.

The Preventer agent blended less than Trowa – the stiff backed walk, the eyes that scanned and took in the surroundings with suspicion. Trowa may be doing the same but he didn’t look like he was – completely casual, eating, taking sips of beer, everything that made him average, normal. It almost made Heero snort – there was nothing average or normal about Trowa Barton.

The interaction was brief, the agent buying a beer, taking a sip for cover before an envelope was exchanged, small enough for Trowa to fold up and put in the front pocket of his cargo shorts. The agent downed the rest of the alcohol, threw some money on the bar and left, passing by Heero as he did.

The warm breeze ruffled Heero’s hair as he watched Trowa finish eating, pull out money, say a few words and then get up, walking away slowly, his hands in his pockets. Heero paid, left a tip, and got to his feet to join Trowa, following him, his pace faster so that he caught him up once they were away from the row of beach bars and tourist stalls, walking then across the white sand and back to their temporary home.

The wooden house was off the beach, the blue paint peeling, it was temporary and old, the water running cold and the electricity pretty damn useless due to storms and the heat but it didn’t matter as it was the last few days, the last few time of discomfort and it would be another place they’d be in, chosen by them rather than some uniform wearing Prev commanders.

Trowa opened the envelope, pouring out the contents onto the low coffee table, and there were as requested the termination papers, some stocks and share documents in false names. Heero looked at them, Trowa not damn caring, only walking over to the window, looking out towards the sea. Once Heero knew their instructions had been followed, he put the contents back inside the envelope and stepped across the room, coming up behind the taller man, resting his head on his shoulder.

He still walked with a little limp weeks after Panama and Trowa felt a slight hint of guilt, annoyance, but Heero didn’t give a shit what Trowa thought about his actions. He’d survive the knife wound, so he’d calculated and maybe… maybe Trowa wouldn’t have. And that was a thought that Heero found too damn difficult to contemplate.

Trowa turned to face Heero and his green eyes looked a little concerned. “You still sure?”

“Yeah,” Heero said, “it’s done now. Time to move on.”

There was nothing left to say but Heero could feel Trowa react as he moved a hand to the bottom of his shirt, ghosting up underneath it to feel the skin underneath. He smirked, pushed forward, trapping Trowa against the glass of the window, his hips and body making him unable to escape. Though Heero supposed he didn’t want to as he reached for Trowa’s face, bringing him down in a forceful motion for a kiss, hard and bruising and hot.

The high of missions was always damn good, the adrenalin, the feel of being useful, of being powerful in control but being with Trowa had its highs, the way that Trowa could be both very dominant and submissive to Heero’s needs, how he was strong and his body firm in all the right places. Heero’s fingers traced over abs, running up to pecs, to nipples, tweaking one hard between his fingertips, giving him a little bit of pain with his pleasure as their tongues slid against each other, wrapping around each other, twining together and thrusting deep into each other’s mouths.

Heero thrust his hips up into Trowa’s, their dicks hard against each other, their bodies automatically seeking friction, grinding up against each other. Pushing him harder, his hands on Trowa’s shoulders, he felt Trowa’s back hit the glass and his partner moaned at the show of aggression, the sound captured in his mouth but still erotic, too fucking erotic, the noise of Trowa – so silent, so quiet, so stoic, moaning was one thing Heero lived for. And fuck, he could give up the highs of missions but he could never give up Trowa, too damn gorgeous, too damn intoxicating and what he damn needed. Yeah, they needed to quit as Heero did not know what he’d do if he was burying Trowa, if a wound was fatal and for some reason he could not stop it. He was the part of his life he could never give up.

Their lips parted, Heero dragging his teeth down Trowa’s throat, scraping a red trail and Trowa’s head went back against the glass, his body shivering at the sensation. Heero nipped at his pulse, biting a little into the skin, the bruise rushing to the surface, and he was marked, claimed as his, Trowa little gasp showing his approval.

“The shirt…” Heero murmured, his fingers working at buttons, “it’s not your colour.”

Trowa let out a short laugh. “No?”

“No.” With the word, Heero gave up with button, smirking as he parted the fabric damn quickly, sliding it off Trowa’s broad shoulders, touching his skin, the firm muscles of his biceps, his lips following down to collarbone, biting there, his hand reaching down the firm muscles of Trowa’s stomach until he reached shorts, undoing the button one handed, swiftly, his own need increasing and he wanted Trowa now, so he impatiently grasped at his cock, hard, wet at the tip while kissing and mouthing at his skin in apology for every mark.

“Turn, Barton.”

“No more orders…” Trowa said through parted lips, panting as Heero’s thumb slid across the head of cock, slicking pre-cum and making him tremble.

Heero laughed, a little husky chuckle as he continued his touch, the slide of his fingers over every inch of Trowa’s dick, his firm smooth strokes bringing his partner close to the edge but he wouldn’t come from a hand job – no, it would be by a hard fuck, the last time maybe they’d need to be this rough, the last time they’d need to be this violent. Or maybe they always would need it like this as Trowa followed the order, the soldier he’d always been, and Heero pushed him, bending him a little at the waist, his large hands against the glass as he pushed down shorts, the fabric pooling around Trowa’s ankles, the grey boxer briefs following, falling to the floor.

He fumbled, Heero’s usual composure lost for one moment, searching for lube in his own pocket, kneeling down behind Trowa, parting ass cheeks, his tongue briefly swiping, the flick of it making Trowa moan, loud, and Heero smirked, repeating the motion, before he stopped his tease, the sound of Trowa’s noises making him too damn needy, his dick so hard that he relieved that pressure, touching himself, squeezing his cock as the fingers of his other hand penetrated, his index finger slipping just inside, the slick digit opening Trowa’s body for him.

“Heero,” Trowa growled.

There had been times in the past when Heero would have heard the way Trowa spoke his name, that rawness in his throat, that neediness and he would’ve complied, sinking into his body too fast, knowing the pain added something to the experience but fuck, this time he ignored Trowa’s whine, sliding one finger in, followed by another, his other hand grasping Trowa's cock in his hand, sliding up and down as he worked his fingers inside Trowa.

He hit prostate, feeling the jerk of Trowa’s body, and soon, but not soon enough for a needy Trowa, he had three fingers inside him, thrusting them in, Heero’s blue eyes watching his actions, knowing that soon it would be his cock inside there, the tight heat of Trowa’s body surrounding him and making him feel a freedom, a bliss, that only he’d ever had with fucking Trowa. His own body demanded and he stood, lining his rock hard dick and his lips worried at the skin of Trowa’s shoulder, as he slid inside, biting down at the moment of penetration, his eyes closing as he let himself submit to the feelings and nothing else mattered.

They didn’t know where they’d go or what they’d do. They had no relevant skills in normality, they had no place to go but Heero didn’t think about that,  instead, he let his hips thrust forward and rock back, his inward push forcing Trowa hard into the glass, his head banging against it and Heero repeated the motion, quick and fast, feeling the ripples of Trowa’s body as he fucked him.

They could travel the damn earth sphere, try to find somewhere to call home but Heero didn’t give a shit about “normal” lives, about settling down, about finding steady work as Trowa was his life, his home and he would never lose him or let him go. He’d never admitted it verbally, never admitted it even to himself except in the blackness of night, awake alone in a dirty hotel room, but Trowa had saved him too many damn times and without him, Heero would back to being alone, wandering. He didn’t want that.

His pace increased, Heero’s hips snapping forward as Trowa bucked back, encouraging him with every movement. There was sweat dripping down Trowa’s neck and Heero lapped at it, tasting the saltiness, tasting him as he fucked him harder, his dick caressed by every inch of Trowa’s body, his world sparking in pleasure.

“Fuck,” Trowa panted and Heero kept his unrelenting rhythm, his hand, still sticky with lube, reaching down to Trowa’s cock, his hand matching the movement of his hips, Trowa throwing his head back at the overwhelming sensations.

Heero grunted, sweat dripping down his face, matting his hair in his eyes as he looked over Trowa’s shoulder, seeing his hand slide over that hard cock. He pushed in so damn far and hard and Trowa let out a harsh pant as he came, his cock twitching in Heeeo's fingers, cum dribbling over his hand and down the glass as Heero thrust a few more times into Trowa’s pliant body, finding his orgasm like a damn freight train, pleasure trailing from his dick through every nerve, taking a moment of panting, of leaning against Trowa’s back until he had enough brain cells to shakily move away, pull out, walk to the bathroom.

He heard Trowa as he turned on the shower, the frigid water not warming but he’d had worse as he stepped into the spray. Trowa stepped in behind him and they kissed again as Heero ran his fingers over all the bite wounds and hickey’s he’d created.

When their lips separated, the cold water sliding over both of their faces, Heero ran his hand to Trowa’s bang, pushing it away from his face, exposing both eyes.

“Start of our new life?”

Trowa gave a slight smile, the one that had always made something in Heero’s stomach bottom out and he nodded.

“A better life.”

In frigid cold water, they kissed again, the heat of their bodies and each other’s touch keeping them warm as the rest of their lives started. Heero didn’t know where they were going but as long as Trowa was with him, he was good with wherever life took them.

 


End file.
